


A Common Language

by airebellah



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Khuzdul, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Bilbo is So Done, Consort Bilbo Baggins, Cultural Differences, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Khuzdul, King Thorin, Language Barrier, M/M, Oblivious Bilbo, POV Bilbo Baggins, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Sassy Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Feels, Thorin Oakenshield Is a Dork, Thorin is a Softie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 08:37:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4870368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/airebellah/pseuds/airebellah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin did not care to proclaim his love for Bilbo in Westron. He found the words fell flat, lacking depth and significance. It was a frustration for the Dwarf, as he struggled to explain Khuzdul expressions in a way Bilbo could understand.<br/>Yet whenever Thorin spoke the words in his native tongue, it seemed to Bilbo no translation was necessary: his overwhelming affection and his earnest devotion were poured into the words themselves. A common language was not required.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Common Language

**Author's Note:**

> I had a thought one night about Thorin and Bilbo, and it wouldn't let me go until I wrote this. It came out with a lot more feels than originally intended.

Reclining in a large plush armchair, Bilbo propped up his feet and basked in the warmth of the fireplace. With a book in his lap and a steaming mug of tea by his side, all that was truly missing was a bit of Old Toby. And perhaps his husband, though Thorin had a way of distracting Bilbo from what should clearly be relaxation time.

Apparently sensing his Hobbit husband was approaching a dangerous level of contentment, the heavy stone doors to their private chambers flung open. In staggered the King, robes wrinkled and hair mussed. Already Bilbo could imagine Thorin running his hands through his wavy locks as the dwarf struggled to rein in his mounting frustration. Bilbo understood the hard work of running a kingdom – especially one in the process of rebuilding after over a century of desolation – but he wished Thorin would not run himself so haggard.

Tired blue eyes scanned the room, soon landing on the lounging Hobbit.

“Ghivashel,” he sighed. Shoulders slumping, it seemed all the stress from the day was finally released. As he pulled the heavy crown from his head, the King became Thorin Oakenshield once more, his private rooms a temporary solace from the pressures of ruling. “You are a sight for tired eyes.”

His husband’s penchant for theatrics had Bilbo snorting. The Hobbit waved his hand, dismissing such exaggeration even as a gratified smile tugged at his lips.

It was still hard at times for Bilbo to comprehend this was his life – the Consort of a Dwarven kingdom, living under a mountain, married and happy beyond measure. He sometimes wondered how a simple Hobbit such as himself garnered the attention of a King.

A _King_.

Thorin was born a prince amongst his people, heir to the greatest of Dwarven kingdoms. Even with the burden of ruling a displaced people thrust upon him at such a young age, Thorin had persevered where others would have failed. His majesty was simply undeniable; his natural bearing, so utterly regal, proclaimed the importance of his birthright so inherently.

Yet to think of Thorin in such grand terms was baffling at the same time. As they had grown closer along the quest, the ordinariness of the aloof King was gradually revealed to Bilbo. In truth, he was simply a Dwarf; Thorin Oakenshield, despite the astounding feats he had accomplished in his long life, had weaknesses and fears as everyone else. He made mistakes and was quick to temper; he laughed at silly anecdotes, and had his own embarrassing stories. While he was undeniably remarkable, the man himself was no better – and certainly no lesser – than any other.

Pulling himself from his musings, Bilbo asked, “How was your day, Thorin?”

Instead of answering immediately, Thorin began the slow process of disrobing. Hazel eyes carefully watched as Thorin carefully placed his crown in its velvet encasement. Though he would never be so callous as to toss the adornment haphazardly, Thorin usually returned to their chambers so completely exhausted, it would just be placed on the nearest surface. However, a simple talk from his Shireling husband – certainly not a _patronizing lecture_ as some would claim – had convinced Thorin the crown should be placed in its proper spot every night.

Tonight, Bilbo pointedly ignored the way Thorin closed the lid with a sound snap.

Amongst terribly exaggerated groans, the Dwarf carried on with his routine, now peeling off the ridiculous layers of his Royal garb. “Meetings are insufferable without you, mizimuh,” he grumbled.

Bilbo watched with growing interest and little modesty as his husband continued undressing. Though the temptation slowly revealing was not yet worth losing the comfort of the armchair and the warmth of the hearth.

“I’m sure there were no _incidents_ today, at least?” Bilbo asked cautiously, though in truth it would be a wonder if there weren’t.

“I can assure you, kurdel,” Thorin offered with purposeful slowness, “There were no prominent injuries.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes, pretending to return to his book with a huff. He could only imagine what a _non-prominent_ injury qualified as for dwarves – most likely anything that did not leave one bedridden.

“We are a passionate people,” Thorin reminded, though Bilbo thought _hot-tempered_ and _utterly impossible_ would suit the stubborn race much better. “Council meetings would benefit greatly from the even temperament and soothing words only a Child of the Kindly West can offer,” Thorin hinted without a trace of subtlety.

Bilbo took a calming sip of tea before stating with practiced patience, “If you want me to sit in your council meeting tomorrow, you need only ask, Thorin.”

As the King divested himself of the last of his robes, he let out a relieved sigh. Left only in a tunic and thin trousers, his countenance became much more relaxed. Draping over the armchair, Thorin wrapped his arms around his husband’s stomach, nose burrowing in soft curls.

“Amrâlimê, I would not subject you to such cruelty for my own whims,” he murmured forlornly.

“Really, Thorin!” Bilbo chided, half-heartedly brushing groping hands away. “Must you always be so dramatic?”

The responding sulky silence was answer enough.

One of Thorin’s hands left Bilbo’s stomach, coming up to brush aside his curls and expose soft, warm flesh. The King’s nuzzling nose soon turned into soft, open-mouthed kisses.

“Will you come to bed with me, âzyungâl?” Thorin asked, voice warm and inviting.

Even as a tempting shiver ran down Bilbo's arms, he found himself resisting. Crossing his arms, he huffily reminded, "I have a name, you know."

“Hmm?” Thorin hummed indifferently, nose tracing the shell of Bilbo's sensitive ear. Heat immediately pooled below the Hobbit’s abdomen, but he determinedly fought against the tempting lure.

"An actual name..." Thorin’s hands kneading his plump stomach had the poor Hobbit trailing off. Clearing his throat, Bilbo steeled himself against the distracting arousal, continuing, "It was given to me by my parents, you see."

Thorin's hot breath warmed his ear as the Dwarf replied, "I have heard of those."

“Y-Yes. Well,” Bilbo stammered, struggling to remember his complaint as the tip of his ear was gently nibbled. “Perhaps you could actually use mine sometime,” he contended, tightening throat exposing his body’s betrayal.

“Mm,” Thorin pulled away as he pretended to contemplate. “I think not,” he decided, quickly returning to his cruel ministrations. “I would have you know the endless bounds of my affection.”

“Oh, for Yavanna's sake, Thorin!” Bilbo cried, exasperation finally triumphing over lust. “Can't you just say _I love you_ like the rest of Arda? Must everything be so dramatic with you Dwarves?”

Warm hands and wet lips abruptly removed from his body, leaving cool imprints of their previously amorous explorations. Bilbo turned around questioningly, watching as Thorin approached the front of the chair. While accustomed to Thorin’s mercurial moods, the King’s solemn expression left Bilbo uneasy.

“Thorin?” he murmured as the Dwarf knelt in front of the armchair. Even with Thorin kneeling, Bilbo still had to tilt his chin upwards to meet the Dwarf’s gaze. Normally Bilbo would huff in annoyance, but his current uncertainty effectively quelled his usual cheek.

The Dwarf’s eyes were hard with seriousness, the playfulness of earlier all but vanished. Large hands reached out, rough, familiar skin grasping Bilbo’s upturned jaw. The depth of his blue eyes drew Bilbo in, transfixing, as the Hobbit waited for an explanation.

Then the solemnity softened, a change almost overwhelming in its transformation. Thorin seemed a different person when the stoic façade faded. Thin lips curving into a small, inviting smile; brows furrowed from constant burden finally relaxing; eyes shining with utterly overwhelming affection; the angular structure of his nose no longer so severe.

“Men lananubukhs me, Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo, Hobbit of the Shire,” came the soft promise at last.

Bilbo knew Thorin did not care to speak of his affection in the Common Tongue. It was a language for men, whose hearts were fickle and sentiments shallow. The Dwarf found the words fell flat, and lacked the ability to convey deep meaning. This meant he had to struggle with explaining Khuzdul expressions in a way Bilbo could understand. Always the translation was deemed inadequate, empty in its superficial terms, an endless vexation for the Dwarf. Yet whenever Thorin spoke the words in his native tongue, it seemed to Bilbo no translation was necessary: his overwhelming affection and his earnest devotion were poured into the words themselves. The deep sonance of Thorin’s grave voice promised unwavering devotion. Almost always Thorin’s hands would grab the Hobbit, ensuring Bilbo’s gaze was locked and his attention unwavering, as if Thorin were disclosing a profound confession. And his eyes – oh, his eyes. They were almost too much for the Hobbit to bear, intense and burning with the heat of deep intimacy.

Bilbo swallowed thickly, fighting the urge to look away.

“Oh. Well, ah,” he stammered, a warm, pleased flush spreading across his fair skin. “I love you too, you – you terribly silly dwarf!” Chuckling shakily, he gently smacked Thorin’s bearded cheek, although the touch somehow turned into a fond caress, fingers tenderly running through the thick, short hairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Ghivashel – treasure  
> Mizimuh – my jewel  
> Kurdel – heart of (all) hearts  
> Amrâlimê – my love  
> Âzyungâl – lover  
> Men lananubukhs me – I love you (familiar masculine ‘you’)
> 
> Find me on tumblr under the same name, always looking to talk Bagginshield :)


End file.
